


With Grace Like Melting Snow

by StarlightSkies



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: (Between Lars and Hermann's mother), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Professional Music World, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abusive Relationship, M/M, Oh and Lars Gottlieb is a dick and a half, Only a lot less hetero, Slow Burn, This fic is honestly like a cheesy Hallmark movie, This includes everyone from PR and PRU because I love them all damnit, thanks for coming to my ted talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-06-12 20:43:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15348324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightSkies/pseuds/StarlightSkies
Summary: At some point along the way, Hermann Gottlieb forgot just how deeply and intensely music made him feel. Maybe with some help, he can figure it out again.Or: A Pacific Rim AU in which Hermann is a prodigious cellist-turned-music teacher and Newt is a budding rockstar at the head of an up-and-coming band.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back with another long AU fic, this time centered on everyone's favorite K-science couple. (I haven't forgotten ATWAS by the way, don't worry.) The initial inspiration for this AU came from a post on tumblr (found here: https://newtbiszler.tumblr.com/post/173021311550/god-will-someone-write-me-an-au-where-newt-is-a), but parvusmundus (on tumblr here: http://parvusmundus.tumblr.com/) and I got carried away, as always, and constructed an entire universe that I just had to turn into a fic. This one is especially near and dear to my heart because I am a classical violinist of thirteen years, and donated a lot of personal experience to Hermann's part in this story. Much of the inspiration for Newt's character and musical style came from parvusmundus, who has been wonderfully supportive through this whole process and the best jam bud I could ask for, so this whole thing is dedicated to her and her vision for this universe. I want to add on a deeply personal level that this fic is the culmination of a lot of my own struggles as a musician, many of which I'm still facing. The music world is as unforgiving and brutal as it is beautiful and rewarding, and one of the best things you can ever do for a musician is to support them wholly and unconditionally, particularly where their insecurities are concerned. This fic is additionally dedicated to all of the musicians reading this, because you are blessed with a gift that few people have and even fewer are able to cultivate to its fullest potential. Keep creating, keep inspiring, and keep loving, because love is the thing that drives us to make music above all else.

A flash of slender fingers over weathered, well-conditioned wood and Newt’s heart sings with the melody that resonates through the hall. As hard as he tries, he can't pry his eyes away from the lone figure on the stage. The soft incandescent bulbs far above cast dramatic shadows across sharp cheekbones, and a sheen of sweat adorns his furrowed brow. The boy, not quite a man, performs a spectacular eighteen note run to a high E, and a shiver shoots down Newt’s spine. He grips the edges of his seat a bit tighter, program crinkling in one hand.

At this rate, Newt thinks, he could fall head over heels.

At fifteen years of age, Hermann Gottlieb is a prodigy. Anyone who has ever been anyone in the classical world knows his name: the youngest winner of the Johansen International String Competition in decades, three time soloist with the Berlin Philharmonic, up-and-coming recording artist after rumored talks with the London Symphony. All well-earned accolades, Newt thinks, but they couldn't hold a candle to hearing the real thing live. 

The concerto’s final notes ring throughout the hall, and a thunder of applause startles Newt from his reverie. He hardly registers that his feet have gone numb until he shuffles them, and a prickly stabbing shoots up his ankles. How long had he sat frozen like that? Minutes? Hours? He remembered Elgar being longer. Maybe it was just a Hermann Gottlieb thing.

Newt watches, transfixed, as the other boy leaves the stage before returning for another showering of encore applause. It's funny, he thinks, how different the cellist looked when he was playing. Exuberant. Radiant, even. Now he seems reserved, reluctant, and even a bit irritated by the pomp and circumstance. 

He mutters a hasty apology as the people in his row file out before him, and much as he wants to follow them, he remains rooted to the spot. When he finally finds his legs again (this time needle-free) he practically sprints to the concert hall’s information desk, where the bored-looking older woman, almost asleep on her paperwork, seems startled by his sudden appearance.

“Excuse me,” he says breathlessly. “When is Hermann Gottlieb performing here again?”

“Um,” she replies eloquently. “I think it's this Thursday. But it's the same piece -” she begins to say, but Newt is already halfway across the lobby to the ticketing counter after yelling a hasty “thanks!” over his shoulder.

He buys a ticket for the Thursday performance, and is then redirected to a venue halfway across the city whose receptionist informs him over the phone that Gottlieb’s next performance there would be in about six months, but that he could try any local music schools or string festivals if he wanted to find out more. Newt thanks the man and hangs up, exhaling loudly. No matter what happens, all he knows is that he has to meet Hermann Gottlieb.

\---

“Sloppy.”

Hermann flinches, the word falling hard across his ears like a slap. His father stands over him as he packs away his cello, and he can feel his shoulders sag, hard as he tries not to let his upset show.

“That was your worst performance yet. I didn’t teach you to perform like some second-rate amateur, Hermann.” His father folds his arms, and Hermann, turning away, can feel the palpable displeasure radiating from him.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’ll do better next time, sir.”

“Yes, you will. I know you can,” Lars says shortly, “and I expect you to show me. I’ll see you upstairs.”

Hermann hears the door to the warm-up room close indelicately, and tears sting his eyes. He scrubs at them hard, hoping the gesture might stop them from falling. He hates that he knows it won’t, and that his father is, as always, in the right. He had botched the run up to the climactic note eight minutes in, and the entire second part had been a disaster because of the damned spicato. He balls his hands, gripping the fabric of his dress slacks, unable to do anything but replay the performance in his head over, and over, and over. 

This is how Emilia Gottlieb finds him. The door closing behind her with a quiet protest and the click, click of her heels against the cold linoleum are all that give her away, and he feels a gentle arm come to rest on his shoulders as she kneels next to him. The plum fabric of her gown spills into the edge of Hermann’s blurred vision, and he chokes back the sob that threatens to rip itself from his throat.

“Your father is looking for you,” she reminds him softly, and Hermann knows that if he looks at her, he won’t be able to stop the tears. He does it anyway against his better fifteen year old judgment, and his mother’s gentle face is etched with concern and exhaustion.

He throws himself into her arms, and she says nothing, her hand rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. They stay like that for several long minutes, until Hermann reluctantly pulls himself from her shoulder, the damp skin sticking slightly to his cheek. 

“Don’t cry, my darling,” she murmurs, stroking his hair before pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Your father doesn’t mean what he says.”

Her words are hollow, though, and Hermann feels the bite behind them. 

“You played beautifully,” Emilia continues, getting to her feet and helping him up before brushing off his trousers and straightening his blazer for him. “No matter what your father says, I am proud of you. And,” she adds, a modicum of brightness finding its way into her voice, “Dietrich made it this time. He couldn’t stay, but he sends his love and asked me to tell you that he thoroughly enjoyed the concert.” Hermann pulls back to look at his mother, and bitterly notes that the brightness doesn’t quite reach her eyes. But, he realizes, she is making an effort for him. Her carefully-constructed mask remains immobile. There are few things Hermann is afraid of save his father’s wrath, but that mask someday slipping and shattering before he has a chance to catch it – that is certainly one of them. 

He looks down once more, so that she won’t see the anger and hatred welling up behind his hurt, just like it always does.

“Thank you, mother,” Hermann replies, wishing somehow that things could be different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The piece Hermann played is Edward Elgar's Cello Concerto in E Minor, Op. 85: https://youtu.be/k53WTroCbYU?t=107


	2. Track 1: The Calm Before the Storm

It is early winter: the season when cold gnaws its way into the crevices between bones, where the Sun’s balmy position over the tropic of Cancer is a forgotten memory five months past, and Hermann Gottlieb is tired of it.

“Look, if you’ll just help me with this project, I’ll be out of your hair. I swear it, Doc,” Jake pleads, and Hermann pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing loudly. The scores that are scattered on his desk stare up at him balefully, and he resigns himself to the fact that he isn’t going to get any more work done today. It’s already half past five and he has to get home – presumably to scarf something down before his other teaching regimen begins at seven with his private lesson students. Today he only has two students, he reminds himself, so maybe he’ll even get to sleep at a decent hour.

“Jake,” Hermann says, with all the weathered patience of an ageless tree looking down upon a woodcutter with a dull axe. “You have asked me before, and my answer is still the same. If I have the time, I will help you. And _please_ ," he adds, rifling through the papers until he finds his gradebook, “while we’re inside the building, it’s Dr. Gottlieb.”

“Sorry.”

“Noted.” He slips on his glasses and thumbs through the pages, finding the current date. All the while he is acutely conscious of Jake studying the book over his shoulder, and Hermann turns to him with a frown.

“I’ve already told you, I won’t allow you to influence Ms. Namani’s grade,” he says offhandedly, and Jake makes an affronted noise. 

“I wasn’t trying to –”

“Deny it all you like, Mr. Pentecost,” Hermann replies firmly. “But I daresay you haven’t reached the point yet where the student can out-teach the teacher.”

Jake falls into a sullen silence, which Hermann knows very well he will break within a few moments. That was the advantage of old students, and even older acquaintances, he thinks: there is very little about Jake Pentecost which he cannot predict. The same holds true, if a bit more loosely, for his sister Mako Mori. As a teacher, Hermann had realized years before that playing favorites was neither appropriate nor professional if he wanted to maintain a respectable amount of credibility with his students and his peers. However, he also knew very well that lying to himself wouldn’t make him feel any better about the fact, which was that the Pentecost siblings were undoubtedly the students who had given him the most joy to teach during his nearly ten year stint at the Jaeger Academy of Music.

Then again, he supposes, that could very likely also be due to the even greater length of time he has known Stacker Pentecost. Stacker’s ascent to the principal position during Hermann’s own school years had shaken the school to its core, and for good reason. After his father’s untimely death and the vice principal’s departure left a gaping hole in an already failing system, Stacker had been approached by the board of trustees fresh out of graduate school. He had unflinchingly taken up the mantle, under the condition that he be allowed to do as he pleased when it came to making decisions concerning the Academy’s future. They had agreed. After all, he had told Hermann one hazy afternoon post-faculty meeting, it was either sink or swim and the board had held their breath, hoping he could keep them afloat.

As it happened, he had done even better than floating. Of course, Hermann thinks, Jake’s momentary silence almost up, the younger Pentecosts were another force to be reckoned with entirely. While he had enjoyed teaching both immensely, the differences between them were too broad and varied for any kind of binary comparison. Mako was grace and gentleness bundled with an iron will and spitfire conviction, whereas her brother was presently lurking behind him, waiting for another opportunity to pounce on Hermann’s lowered guard about his thesis project. It was a daily routine, and one that was all too familiar (and perhaps welcome) for him to be comfortable sacrificing it entirely, in spite of his vocal protests that Jake’s presence in his life cost him at least an hour of his life and two classes’ worth of grading every Tuesday, Thursday, and every other Friday.

“If I say yes to participating in your project,” Hermann says abruptly, before Jake has the chance to do more than open his mouth, “will you at least cut your visits down to twice per week? Much as I enjoy your company, your father is paying me to do my job, and I should say that teaching you for two years was an adequate method of paying my dues.” He knows his sardonic tone is not lost on Jake, but he apparently cares very little as Hermann endures a clap to the shoulder and an overwhelmingly sunny atmospheric change in the small corner office.

“See, now that’s what I’m talking about!” Hermann does not turn around, does not need to in order to imagine the celebratory gestures that are taking place some few feet behind his head. “I knew you’d come around in the end, Doc.” 

Hermann exhales slowly, beginning to gather his belongings for the trek home. “Yes, I’m sure you did.” He closes his laptop lid with a soft click, just shy of beseeching every theoretical higher power in the universe to grant him the unyielding patience necessary to continue accommodating one overactive, if well-meaning, grad student. “Email me the details and I’ll be sure to look them over.”

He grasps his cane from its usual place between the desk and his mess of a score library and heaves himself to his feet, inwardly wincing at the winter stiffness that has sunk its claws into the scarred tissue of his right leg. Hermann knows it is too late to attempt any kind of tidying today; that can wait until lunch hour tomorrow, barring any unforeseen cataclysmic events. For now, he settles on shoving his laptop and gradebook into his bag, and shouldering his cello from where it sits in a puddle of light seeping in from the first-floor window above. Even after his promotion to full-time faculty, Hermann had refused the offer for a bigger and better office operating under the pretense that it would be too troublesome to move all of his books and music.

“That’s funny,” Mako had said with a sly smile, “since your current office is far away from the other classrooms and all. Here I thought you were just keeping all the best practice space to yourself.”

Hermann sometimes hates how well she can read him.

Jake, on the other hand, has no such talent, Hermann notes while ushering him out and thumbing through his keyring, eventually finding the proper one. He does have his moments, though. At the very least, Hermann respects him for his conviction in standing up to his father – a skill which he, in truth, envies greatly.

With Jake at his heels, still talking animatedly about his research and findings, Hermann is struck by an unsettling tug of nostalgia as he looks back at his office in the dying glow of the late November afternoon. Though it has been nearly ten years since he taught either of the Pentecost siblings, at times it still feels as if he is still their teacher, and they his students. 

He switches the lights off and locks his office, the white metal blinds clinking balefully against the glass as the door shuts behind him.

“I just have to stop by the office before we go,” Hermann says, bundling himself in his parka, and Jake shrugs in agreement.

“Don’t let me stop you. I’m not talking to my old man, though.”

“You know,” Hermann says, hefting his cello case further onto his shoulders and beginning to make his way toward the stairwell, “one of these days you’ll learn to appreciate all he’s done for you. I didn’t say he was perfect,” he interrupts Jake, who has opened his mouth evidently to argue. “But you could at least _try_ to get along with him sometimes,” he continues, pausing on the landing to re-balance his things. He leans on his cane for a moment and looks back at Jake, who is apparently mid-eyeroll. 

“Yeah, I know.” He makes a noncommittal noise that sounds vaguely dismissive to Hermann, but he lets it slide. “But what do you know? He doesn’t exactly make it easy to get on with him.”

Hermann pushes down the acrid emotions that gnaw at a spot somewhere deep inside his ribcage. It doesn’t do to dwell on what he cannot change.

Instead, he makes a valiant effort up the remaining stairs, briefcase swinging from its feeble purchase on his arm as he chooses his next words carefully. “Only that I’ve known him quite a bit longer than you have. But I won’t pretend that I’m in your position, Jake. You’re free to do as you see fit.”

They round the bend to the main corridor in silence, footsteps echoing in the empty hall. Most of the other faculty members have gone for the day, though Hermann notes that the Kaidonovskys’ adjoining offices are still illuminated. For good reason, he supposes; the choir concert is next week, and the orchestra concert hard on its heels only a week and a half later. He was grateful for the extra time he was given, though as Sasha liked to remind him every semester, that meant an extra week to relax for her. Well, bully for her, his brain supplies, as always. In his heart of hearts, Hermann knows that the age-old choir-and-orchestra dichotomy is ridiculous, but that doesn’t stop him from succumbing to the occasional streak of friendly rivalry when it does arise. And it often does, at small private music schools with fewer than four hundred students in grades six through twelve. Perhaps he had never intended on becoming a teacher, Hermann thinks, but his colleagues were all decent people proud of what they did, be it private instrumental lessons or full time class teaching. Of course, most of the faculty had resigned themselves to doing both as their ranks thinned, a necessary evil when the layoff notices came ‘round.

As he and Jake approach the central part of the building and the principal’s office, a sudden influx of sound meets Hermann’s ears and he stops, puzzled. Ahead in the corridor was Stacker, standing with his arms folded behind his back, which was not entirely out of the ordinary seeing as he was in front of his office. However, he is conversing with two men Hermann can’t identify, one of whom is gesticulating animatedly and speaking very quickly.

“So, you’ll do it? I mean it, man, this could be exactly what we both need,” the lively one says, and from a distance Hermann can make out flashes of what look to be colorful and admittedly rather garish tattoos lining both of his forearms, trailing up over his elbows and biceps until their lines are submerged within the black of his T-shirt sleeve. His companion, taller and stockier, is a bit more artfully dressed, and adjusts his bowtie as the shorter of the two finishes his tirade.

Stacker looks thoughtful when Hermann’s attention re-focuses on him, and he inclines his head. “I haven’t yet made a decision, but I’ll be sure to let you know,” he says, and the first man, whom Hermann privately has begun to liken to a small yet very excitable chameleon, nods enthusiastically, practically bouncing on the balls of his partly-unlaced patent leather boots.

Fully intending to wait until they were through with their discussion before disturbing the principal, Hermann sets his bag down by one of the waiting area chairs in the alcove next to the office as Jake lingers behind him a few yards, apparently trying his hardest to look disinterested while leaning against a doorframe. As he begins to set his cello down, however, Stacker’s voice startles him to attention.

“Mr. Gottlieb,” he says, “I won’t be more than a moment.” Hermann gives him a short nod, and moves to settle himself in one of the threadbare seats, fishing out several sheets of paper which crinkle slightly as he folds them into his cane hand. Before he can sit, however, there is a blur somewhere to his right, and he turns just in time to witness the chameleon man nearly bowl him over in his apparent enthusiasm as he comes skidding down the hall. He stops just short of Hermann, and without warning grasps his left hand, shaking it so excitedly Hermann is afraid his shoulder might fall out of its socket.

“You’re Hermann Gottlieb, right?” The smaller man finally releases his hand, and Hermann is baffled.

Hermann feels like his brain has turned to lead, and he frowns, unable to comprehend any sort of reasonable reply. “I beg your pardon,” he manages, after a few very long moments. “But I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” He knows his voice is probably a few degrees shy of what would ordinarily be considered a friendly tone, but the man’s next words almost make him wish it had been colder.

Far from being fazed, he continues excitedly, “I am _such_ a big fan of your playing. Like, I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you – wow, this is just – I used to go to every concert you gave!” 

With every word from his mouth, Hermann’s stomach inches further and further toward the bottom of his abdomen. Surely he had to be joking – there was no one who remembered his solo career, cut short as it was fifteen years ago. Those few who still remained, well. Praises of his playing had died on their lips long, long before, even before he had succumbed to the finality of the whole thing. In the back of his mind, burned into his memory, his father’s unfeeling gaze still follows him every time he so much as tightens his bow. Somehow, staring at the excitable chameleon man in front of him, Hermann feels suddenly and viscerally as if he is fifteen again.

And _oh_ , how he hates it.

Bile rises in his throat and he pushes it down, choosing to inhale slowly and square his shoulders instead, trying desperately not to betray how pathetic he feels. The strange man, apparently oblivious to the emotional havoc he is wreaking, continues to jabber away.

“Seriously, this is just the coolest. Like, you’re here – are you _teaching_ here now? Anyway, what I mean is,” he says, frowning, “why did you do it? Quit, that is? You were at the top of your game and then the next second it was like, boom, gone. I tried for so long to find out what had happened, and now I run into you _here_?”

Hermann stiffens, too far beyond caring about bruising the other man’s ego to stop his next words before they tumble from his mouth. “I’ll thank you to mind your own business. My career does not concern you.” The effect is brutal and immediate, but it does its intended job of shutting him up. Who does he think he is, to come barging into Hermann’s personal affairs with his gaudy tattoos and too-tight jeans?

He opens his mouth to say more, but is mercifully interrupted by Stacker and the other man. The former clears his throat, quirking a brow. “Mr. Gottlieb, this is Newton Geiszler, a former student of mine. If I’m not mistaken, he was a student here at the same time as you – unless you two already know each other.”

“A pleasure, I’m sure,” Hermann says stiffly, barely glancing at the chameleon man whom he now knows is named Newton. Turning his full attention to Stacker, he thrusts the papers at him. “Sir, I took the liberty of requesting the same venue for the orchestra concert as usual. I trust there won’t be any problems.” A short incline of the head is all the answer he needs, and Hermann gathers his things as hastily as he can manage while balancing his cane in one hand. The shame and guilt already flooding his heart is doubled when he catches sight of Newton’s expression, which has morphed into one of pure disdain, an undercurrent of hurt barely visible.

_Well, I can hardly apologize now. Best leave it be._

“Unless there’s anything else you require from me, I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Hermann says carefully, and upon Stacker’s approval he hoists his cello case onto his back once more and hurries down the central steps with as much grace as he can manage, the door slamming with a satisfying bang behind him.

Once he is sure he is a safe distance away from the entrance hall, Hermann allows himself a brief pause in the faculty lot, bending over his cane and letting out a long, pent-up breath. The subsequent slam of a door and running footsteps panics him for a brief moment, but when he looks up he catches sight of Jake jogging toward him, brow knit with concern. His jaw works, and clearly he is itching to say something, but Hermann sends a grateful plea of thanks to any and all higher powers in the universe that he decides to abstain and let Hermann catch his breath. They stand together in silence for a few moments, before Jake is unable to contain himself any longer.

“That guy in there? The one you pissed off? That’s Newt Geiszler,” he blurts out, beginning to pace.

“I hardly see how it is any of my business what he calls himself in his spare –”

“ _Man_ , you don’t get it, do you? That’s _Newt Geiszler_. Like, the guy who took Lady Danger to the top of the charts. Before him, they were nobodies. Then this guy comes in and just –” he pauses, and does what appears to be some kind of rocket mimicry and gesticulates toward the sky – “they’re holding at number four worldwide. Literally everyone knows who they are.”

“Well, pardon me if I don’t,” Hermann says acidly, though he immediately regrets his tone. “I apologize, Jake, that was unprofessional of me. Perhaps I’m not in their target demographic,” he says a moment later, a bit more quietly. 

Jake shrugs it off, saying, “Nah man, it’s cool. But he’s a freaking musical genius, that’s who. I guess you get points for being ballsy.” 

Hermann studies the violet sky, the last flecks of sunlight dotting the clouds between the school buildings. He shrugs his parka tighter about his neck, soft puffs of breath leaving billowing steam clouds that wend their way into the frozen air.

“You know,” he says at last, “I don’t see that it matters. I’m hardly going to see him again, am I?”


	3. Track 2: It's All Downhill (Again)

Hermann sits in the faculty room, fingers laced on the table in front of him five days later, dreading once again that it is Monday. The only noise in the muffled stillness, early morning light streaming in through the crooked blinds, is the _click_ of the electric kettle and the rush of bubbles to the steaming water’s surface inside. Mako excuses herself from the table to fetch their mugs from the cupboard by the sink, and Hermann wonders what blend she’ll surprise him with this morning.

“White jasmine,” she says quietly in answer as she sets the mug down before him, and resumes her place seated opposite. The aroma curls through the air, offering a pleasant and soothing start to the morning as it rises. Hermann’s brain lags for about ten seconds before he looks up, and voices his thanks. She smiles.

He curls a hand around the mug, and allows the warmth to seep into his joints before taking a careful sip. It isn’t enough to offset the unfortunate, too-cool-for-comfort zone the thermostat currently resides in, but it will have to do.

“The key word this winter is ‘layers,’” Herc had said, looking a bit guilty. The only part of the building that had escaped the heating debacle was, incidentally, the basement. Hermann continued to feign innocence, but he suspected most of the other faculty (and all of his students) knew full well he didn’t keep his office merely for good acoustics. Despite the wrath of boilers decades past their expiry and unfortunate oil bills, Stacker was an intelligent man who knew full well that instrument storage (also, incidentally, in the basement) needed to be kept at a stable temperature – unless, Hermann reminded him, they wanted to spend an even greater fortune on replacing every instrument they owned. He had capitulated easily.

The faculty room was another story, however. Hermann realizes this very well, so cardigan _and_ blazer it is.

He stirs his tea absentmindedly, and they sit in companionable quiet for a time while their tea steeps. Mako passes him the honey as he fishes his teabag out, and after deliberating on the proper amount, he takes an experimental sip. It’s not bad by any means, and Hermann sets the mug down, satisfied. White tea isn’t his first choice if left to his own devices, but once in a while it’s a welcome change from his usual black tea fare.

“So,” Mako says after a while, looking up at him from the depths of her cup. “How is the project with Jake going? He’s not bothering you too much, is he?”

Hermann offers her a small smile. “Your brother does what he wants, regardless of my own wishes. He’s extraordinarily lucky he is who he is, or I might not have helped him at all.” The words feel hollow on his tongue, though, and they both know they aren’t true.

“Does that mean you’re going to let him use your class for his study?”

“Now that I haven’t decided yet.” Hermann leans back in his chair, adjusting the numerous layers of clothing around him. “I’m not entirely sure it would be of use to him, even if it would provide him with some survey data. However,” he continues, as Mako opens her mouth (presumably to argue), “if you and he are both convinced it will be valuable to his music therapy research, I don’t see why not.”

Mako hides her smile behind another sip of tea.

Hermann manages to keep a straight face, but Mako Mori and Jake Pentecost have always been two of the only people with whom he finds it difficult to do so.

They lapse into another stretch of early-morning quiet, enjoying the winter stillness that comes filtering in with the soft light between the window blinds. Hermann studies his mug, gaze tracing the delicate staff lines that adorn the deep blue of the glaze, before remarking, “How is the moving in going? I know you said on Saturday that the movers had almost finished with the furniture. Are you any closer to having a proper studio?”

“Not yet.” Mako shakes her head, and offers him a somewhat wry smile. “I meant to thank you again for allowing me to use your studio, though. I promise it won’t be forever – just a few weeks at most.”

Hermann feels a flush begin to rise in his cheeks, and he waves a hand. “It’s the very least I could do. I have the space at home, and my private lesson schedule isn’t as busy this time of year. What’s mine is yours, as long as you should need it.”

“Thank you, _sensei_ ,” she says again, ducking her head, and Hermann truly can’t help the smile that crosses his face then.

“Need I remind you, you’re _also_ a teacher now, Miss Mori?” he asks, half joking, which earns him a quiet laugh. It’s an old conversation, and one Hermann knows he will have to repeat many times more – not that Mako will ever acquiesce.

She takes another sip from her mug, flexing her fingers into the warmth of the ceramic before answering.

“In Japan, every teacher calls every other faculty member _sensei_ , save for the vice principal and principal who have special titles. It’s a term of respect,” she says, and turns to look out the window toward the steadily brightening sky. “Maybe I’m old fashioned somehow. But _sensei_ is… _sensei_. Even if you have far more experience than I do,” she adds, coloring slightly.

Hermann considers her words, and leans back against the frigid vinyl of his chair. She isn’t wrong, he thinks; if anyone were to consider their difference in experience alone, perhaps it would be another story. But Mako has proven herself to be just as good a teacher as he had anticipated she would be when she first professed her interest in teaching music. Not unlike himself, she had decided only after pursuing performance studies that it wasn’t the proper field for her. However, her reasoning was different, and he was thankful. Stacker was every inch the father that Hermann’s own had not been, he thinks, and his brain lapses back into stillness for a moment, until –

 _Why did you do it? Quit, that is? You were at the top of your game and then the next second it was like, boom, gone. I tried for so long to find out what had happened, and now I run into you_ here _?_

His expression must have tensed, even if only for a brief moment, because his reaction is enough to cause a concerned crease between Mako’s furrowed brows.

“ _Sensei_. Are you all right?”

Her concern gives him momentary pause, and something in her expression – or perhaps her tone – forces him to swallow the falsehood working its way toward his tongue.

Hermann finds he can’t answer, not right away, and Mako prompts him again, gently. “Is this about what happened last week? What you told me on Saturday? You mentioned it briefly, but…is there something else?”

“I don’t know. Yes. Maybe?” Perplexed, Hermann clasps his hands before his now-empty mug. The strange disquiet that had plagued him since his encounter with the strange duo ( _Newton Geiszler_ and his companion, he corrects himself) had subsided – but not for good, apparently. Their interaction – the conversation, and the subsequent hurt look in the man’s eyes had replayed in his head dozens of times, and as hard as Hermann tried, he couldn’t figure out _why_. He had said as much to Mako on Saturday when she had sat with him after her private students had all left; perhaps, she had told him, it was because he felt some kind of lingering guilt about it.

Hermann hadn’t wanted to contradict her, but he had privately thought that perhaps it was more because of the memories the entire interaction had dredged up. He had actively chosen to avoid every thought, memory, and mention of Lars Gottlieb that he could since they had parted ways during his university years. The unpleasantness of a person like him was not so easily forgotten, though, much to his great distaste.

He explains as much to Mako as he can put into words, and she listens intently, only interrupting occasionally to ask a question or nod in agreement.

“I just…truly, I cannot figure out why this whole event is so stubborn to let go,” Hermann finishes helplessly, forcing himself to relax and unclasp his hands, which are curled tightly around one another on the tabletop. “I hadn’t thought much about it, but then I suppose I hadn’t thought about _him_ in a decade or so.”

Mako is perhaps the only person (save Stacker himself) outside of Hermann’s family to whom he has told much – or summarized, at the very least – of how he parted ways with his father. Perhaps it is her own troubled past or her very nature as an expert listener and confidante; either way, Hermann has always been grateful for her willingness to simply let him _speak_ when he needs to speak, just as she does now.

“Maybe that’s why you can’t let go of it,” she says thoughtfully, after a drawn-out silence. “That man – Newton, was it? – didn’t you say that he knew you from a long time ago?”

“I hardly think _knew_ is an appropriate word to use, seeing as I’ve never met the man before in my life,” Hermann scoffs, but forces his tone to return to equilibrium with some difficulty. “But he said that he did. I suppose being reminded of…all of it has given me much to think about.” That was, he thinks, the understatement of the century, but it was the only plausible reason a one-off, chance encounter could possibly still be at the forefront of his mind. It was like being presented with an equation with no given variables, and expected to come up with the correct answer on the first try. The simplest solution would be to tuck it away for another day, but that was the difficulty with being himself, Hermann realized: he couldn’t rest until it was solved.

Mako looks as if she is about to say something else, but she is interrupted by the faculty room door squealing its way open. She immediately stands and, upon realizing that it is Stacker at the door, Hermann does the same, albeit a bit more slowly.

“Good morning, _kōchō-sensei_ ,” Mako says, and lowers her head. Hermann echoes the greeting, but stops short when he sees him. Stacker looks more tired than he has ever seen him, and in spite of his placid tone when he wishes them a good morning in return, he clearly has a very distinct reason for being there.

“I’m glad I found you here this morning,” he says evenly, though Hermann wonders at the pleasantry; Stacker had to have known that he would find them where they were every morning, without fail, at seven o’clock AM sharp. “Can I have a word with the two of you? In my office, that is,” Stacker asks, gesturing toward the door.

Hermann glances at Mako, who looks curiously back at him, but they both follow Stacker to his office. He is taken aback for a moment to find several of the other full-time faculty members there to greet them, including the Kaidonovskys, Herc Hansen and his son Chuck, and their newest hire, Nate Lambert, fresh from his post-graduate degree. Hermann’s heart jumps a bit as it always did when they all gathered together; their dwindling numbers are not missed by anyone in the room, least of all those of the faculty who had been there longest.

“Right,” Stacker says, folding his arms behind his back. He still cuts an imposing figure, as is his nature, but Hermann notes once more privately how exhausted he looks. “I’m sorry to have called all of you here so early, but I wanted to relay a bit of good news – which I’m sure you’re all aware is sorely needed, in light of recent events,” he adds grimly, surveying the quizzical expressions and nods of agreement scattered throughout the room. “For anyone who remains yet unaware, the board has threatened to shut us down within the year. They’ve told me if we can’t manage at least a twenty percent enrollment increase within the next two years, we’re through.” He pauses for a moment, gauging the other teachers’ reactions, and Hermann is grateful for the interruption, because the temperature in the room has just gone down yet another ten theoretical degrees. Most of them had known how bad things were with the slashed endowment and record low enrollment rate, but to have a real time frame was…another story entirely.

“And this,” Stacker says after a moment, “is where the good news comes. I doubt any of you would remember him – save for Mr. Gottlieb.” Stacker fixes that penetrating stare of his on Hermann, who is equal parts baffled and perplexed as the other faculty members’ eyes all fix on him for a heartbeat or two before trailing back to the principal. “But a particularly generous alumnus by the name of Newton Geiszler has volunteered to assist us with some press efforts.”

He is interrupted by Chuck, who looks incredulous.

“You mean the famous guy? Like, the rock star, right?” His tone matches his expression to a T, and Hermann is taken aback for a moment.

 _Famous_?

Yes, that was right. Jake had mentioned it, but he had somehow forgotten. It had seemed trivial at the time, but now that the man was purportedly going to _help_ them?

“Yes, Mr. Hansen, the same. Though he only attended the academy for a short time, he has told me that he owes a great deal to this school for the education he received while here.” Stacker is thoughtful in his reply, but nothing he says does anything to uncoil the icy tendril of dread that has begun to settle into the pit of Hermann’s stomach.

“So, what does this change? What can he do for us?” Sasha’s impatient voice cuts like glass through the pensive hush that has fallen across the room.

 _It changes quite a good deal_ , Hermann thinks, but it is of little consequence to anyone else in the room.

“Yeah, unless he’s gonna dump a boatload of money on us, I don’t see what will help,” Chuck interjects drily, but Hermann can make out the weariness below the sandpaper surface. They are all tired, by now, of watching the Academy crumble.

Stacker, however, is as unreadable as Hermann has ever seen him, save for his weariness. “No, Mr. Hansen, I’m sorry to say that he is _not_.” The tacit line that follows, Hermann realizes, they all understand clearly: _and even if he had, I would never have accepted it_. “However, since he is, as you said, a ‘famous guy,’ he has agreed to use the resources at his disposal to increase the good press circulating for us. And,” he adds, a small spark of _something_ finding its way into his eyes, “pending approval from his end, Mr. Geiszler has also expressed interest in hosting a benefit concert in order to draw people to the town and, thereby, the Academy.”

The tendril of dread becomes a full-on serpent just then, and Hermann is afraid for a moment it might just devour him.

\---

“Tendo, buddy, I’m gonna need you to kill me.”

Tendo shoots him an upside-down exasperated look from where he stands by the counter of their hotel kitchenette making yet another cup of coffee. Newt feels the blood beginning to pound in his head, but at present he can’t muster the energy to right himself. Besides, being draped over the arm of a mildly uncomfortable couch isn’t the worst position he’s ever been in, all things considered. Far from it.

Tendo takes another upside-down swig of coffee and sighs.

“We’ve been over this. I was _there_. And you still think this is a good idea?”

Newt shoots him another (what he hopes is a) baleful look.

“Give me like five minutes to lay my feelings to rest, okay? Jeez. And yes, it’s a good idea – a very good idea to help the school that basically made me a musician.” _Prickly, snobby, English-y cello teacher or not_. Newt’s brain supplies the rest of the sentence, and though it is perhaps a bit unfair, he finds that he doesn’t entirely care. Some things (like propriety) were supposedly common knowledge. Or so he had thought.

“And if I say no?” Tendo folds his arms, and Newt finally flips over onto his stomach, which is distinctly less comfortable with the lumpy couch arm digging into his ribcage. Of course, even less comfortable was the soul-crushing sensation of having his innards (read: heart) metaphorically trodden on upon finding out that the man he’d probably been not-so-secretly (slightly creepily?) in…something with since he was the ripe old age of thirteen and a half. Whatever that something was, he thinks wearily, _well_. Some lessons were best learned the hard way, no matter how vehemently he might wish that weren’t the case.

Instead, he fixes Tendo with a mock-hurt glare.

“Tendo, my man. You’ve been my manager for how long and you don’t _trust_ me?”

“I think we both know the answer to that question.”

“Fine, okay. Yes, we do. But seriously,” Newt says, pleased at the thread of conviction that wends its way into his voice. “Seriously. This is a fantastic opportunity. Not just for the school, but for Lady Danger, too. Do you know how good it would be for our PR? Actually, don’t answer that.”

Tendo’s only answer is to arch a brow and take another swig of his coffee.

“You’re positive this has nothing to do with the _other_ thing,” he says, and Newt inwardly winces. Having your manager as a best friend wasn’t entirely what he had thought it would be half a decade prior.

And the truth? No, he isn’t sure. Not even a bit.

He takes his time before answering, fruitlessly searching for the right words. Two decades’ worth of baggage was a _lot_ to take in, especially with how poorly things had gone the previous week. It wasn’t every day you fucked up meeting your teenage semi-celebrity-but-sort-of-hopeful crush, especially when the tippy top of the terrible sundae was that _apparently_ he was an arrogant asshat. Okay. Maybe that was going a bit far, Newt considers, but the guy had been incredibly rude. And he himself wasn’t one to abide by the hard-and-fast rules of propriety and social courtesies, but sometimes too far was too far. Tendo had said that perhaps he’d had a bad day, or they’d simply gotten off on the wrong foot. He disagreed, however; it was difficult to mistake the intense disdain and loathing that had passed across Hermann Gottlieb’s face at the mere mention of his being a longtime fan. “Ouch” hadn’t quite cut it.

“Tendo,” Newt says finally, “it’s over. What’s done is done, and as long as I don’t have to work with the man, it shouldn’t be an issue. Besides,” he adds, studying a particularly interesting patch of carpet with a suspicious-looking stain, “I doubt the guy even remembers me. I didn’t go to the Academy for that long – no more than like two years, I don’t think – and we were enrolled in separate curricula. Plus, dude, I was a year behind him. So what I’m saying is, like, it’ll be fine, okay?”

His heart doesn’t echo the sentiment, but Newt swallows the emotion. It will be put to rest in time, he figures, but you didn’t just get over something like _that_ in a minute, an hour, or even a few days.

Tendo apparently can sense his thoughts, as per usual, because his entire expression practically reeks of the concern Newt knows he’s fighting very hard not to let show. To his credit, though, he simply says, “Okay. If you’re determined, then where do we start?”

Newt cracks a half-smile and says, “So, are you sure you won’t kill me yet? Even for doing something as crazy as this?”

“With you, every day is a bag of cats, Newt.” Tendo presses a palm to his forehead and rubs gently for a moment before looking up. “But no, kill you? You’re making us far too much money for me to get rid of you that easily. So I suppose it wouldn’t be so terrible if I let you go forward with this…scheme of yours. Provided,” he adds sharply, “that it doesn’t conflict with the band’s tour schedule. Next winter, maybe, since you guys will have a break.”

Newt grins for real this time, and goes in for a fist bump, which Tendo (somewhat) reluctantly returns. “This is gonna be great,” he hears himself say, and hopes fervently in his heart of hearts that he’s right.

“You’d better hope that PR is as good as you think it will be, because I am _not_ working for free.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking so long to get this one out, and that it's mostly exposition. Oops. I was in the process of moving back to Japan for the last month or so to teach English, so some of my teacher feelings will probably find their way into Hermann's perspective, LOL. Enjoy, and thanks for reading!


	4. Track 3: Fierce Like the Strongest Gale (Alternate Title: Fuck You, Fauré)

“As I was saying,” Hermann says, turning back to the blackboard, but no sooner has he moved than the whispering picks up again. He summons the remnants of his patience from somewhere deep in his chest, wedged squarely between irritation and exasperation, and concentrates on loosening his grip on the chalk between his right thumb and index finger. There were days he loved being a teacher, he thinks, but this was most certainly not one of them. Not when the only subject circulating through the classroom, in lieu of theory exam review, was Lady Danger’s very own Newton Geiszler.

It was as if the very name had plagued him ever since the faculty meeting that unfortunate morning the previous week. Suddenly, Hermann had realized, he was hearing it everywhere. If it wasn’t from his students or the other teachers, it was his private lesson students, Jake, Herc, and even Stacker himself once or twice. He’d thought he would be free at home, but no; there was a good reason Jake had looked ready to have a hernia the first time they’d run into him together. No sooner had Hermann thought it a good idea to re-tune the dial on his car’s radio than what name should crop up, but Newton Geiszler? It was some popular music station that he rarely paid any mind, save for the odd occasion once or twice a month when his curiosity got the better of him and he refreshed himself on what kind of recycled, overdone rubbish the average struggling startup band could produce. They hadn’t even been playing anything by _his_ band (which Hermann unfortunately now knew was called Lady Danger), but instead had been re-running an old question-and-answer session with Geiszler and the other band members. Upon recognizing the voice, he had blanched and turned the dial back to NPR’s classical station as quickly as he could, fumbling a bit with staticky wavelengths before finally settling back into a Julia Fischer performance of Antonin Dvorak’s Violin Concerto in A Minor with the Tonhalle Orchestra in Zurich. However, even her soulful, artistic rendition wasn’t enough to shake the feeling in Hermann’s gut that had been twisting around his stomach ever since the faculty meeting. Maybe it was the memories the encounter had dragged to the surface of his consciousness. Maybe it _was_ guilt and Mako had been right, or maybe it was something beyond Hermann’s comprehension. The only answer that had presented itself so far, from that brief five minute encounter, was that he had an unquestionable and seemingly inexplicable propensity to dislike Newton Geiszler.

_And now_ , Hermann thinks, turning his gaze ceiling-ward and hoping with every fiber of his being that the bell will ring ten minutes earlier than expected and put an end to today’s hopeless review session, _perhaps I am slightly more justified in my dislike, because my class of junior high students cannot and will not refrain from mentioning his name with every other syllable that passes their lips_.

The bell does not ring, and Hermann finally turns to face his students, one hand still holding the chalk, the other making a valiant effort not to snap the head of his cane in two.

“I fail to see how you all can afford to be so lackadaisical about your theory,” he says, “when, need I remind you, you have an exam in two weeks which could determine your rate of success – or failure – in this class.” He pauses for a moment, allowing the statement to sink in, and cannot deny the slight grim satisfaction that creeps forward in his brain as the cacophony of whispers is reduced to a hushed silence.

A few of them mumble apologies, faces cast downward toward the dirty, off-white linoleum, and Hermann nods shortly. “Now then, shall we continue?”

The question goes unanswered as he turns back to the board once more and continues diagramming the different scale types and modes – hopefully in a manner which the class will finally understand this go around. Mercifully, from behind him there comes the rustling of bags and notebook paper, followed by hasty pen-clicking as the students scurry to copy down what is being written (before it has even been written, too, Hermann notes, characteristic of well-meaning yet often overenthusiastic middle school students).

Finishing the mode diagrams, Hermann looks pointedly at the class, and clears his throat. “Since this is the _third_ time we have discussed scales and modes, would any of you be kind enough to describe to me which mode this is,” he says, gesturing with his cane toward the Lydian mode, “and what differentiates it from its Ionian counterpart?” When only silence meets his ears, he frowns. “All right, then would anyone be willing to _sing_ the difference for me?” _Heaven knows they need the practice. Perhaps practical use trumps rote memorization in this case_.

Toward the back of the room, Hermann sees Amara’s hand give a tentative wave from behind Jinhai’s head. He nods toward her. “Miss Namani, please.” She does as she is asked, and the pitches are correct. He feels himself growing slightly more hopeful as the seconds tick onward, and in spite of the day’s slow progress so far, Hermann has the audacity to think that maybe progress is not yet so moot a point as he had thought. “And,” he adds, as a follow-up, “can anyone tell me the difference between the two scales that Amara demonstrated?” He hears the answer mumbled by several people, and raises a brow; they get the hint, and Viktoriya says, “The fourth note was raised by a half step.”

“Exactly,” Hermann answers, and allows himself an inward sigh of relief. Perhaps they hadn’t forgotten everything after all. It would certainly make grading the exam slightly less painful.

He realizes half a moment later, though, that he has spoken too soon.

“I don’t see why that was so difficult,” Viktoriya says impatiently, and Hermann stops, watching her cautiously; unpredictable as they were, it was often difficult to tell with middle school students (in particular _music_ students) what sort of chaos might come next. “Everyone knows it’s used in _Arrow to the Knee_. The Lady Danger song,” she adds, and no sooner has she uttered the syllables that Hermann has begun to dread than the classroom erupts into excited, pubescent chaos once more.

Even as the bell rings, signaling the end of what Hermann considers to be one of the longest forty-five minute periods of his thirty-five year young life, he feels something inside of him is dangerously close to snapping. “All _right_ , he says loudly, and it achieves about half of the desired effect. There is now, at least, a bit of quiet to interject. “Be that as it may, you are all still woefully behind schedule. I expect you to have reviewed today’s lesson, as well as your notes from earlier in the semester, _and_ finished workbook pages forty-seven through fifty by this time on Friday. Class dismissed.”

The last two words are unusually cathartic, he thinks, watching the class chatter ever more excitedly as they shove their binders and pencil cases into keychain-adorned bookbags and head toward the canteen for lunch. There is even the distinct absence of a class-wide groan as he assigns the homework, Hermann realizes, but decides that the tradeoff isn’t entirely worth it. Perhaps Lady Danger and her frontman can stave off the agonies of homework, but in exchange for unfocused, unproductive, and downright inattentive classes? Certainly not.

Hermann lets out a long, slow breath once all of the students have rushed toward the lunchroom, and begins to erase the blackboard when a slight movement to his left stops him. He squints, and after a moment is able to make out Stacker silhouetted in the late morning light. Putting the eraser back on the chalkboard ledge, Hermann dusts his hands off and makes his way to the principal.

“This is a surprise,” he says, coming to a halt just before the threshold. “To what do I owe the pleasure, sir?”

“I’m afraid I must impose on you for a few minutes, Dr. Gottlieb,” Stacker says, hands clasped behind his back. “And I have a question. If you can spare the time, can we step into your office?”

“Of course,” Hermann replies, feeling vaguely perplexed. Stacker is anything but cryptic; ordinarily, his frankness does him considerable credit. Truthfully, he isn’t sure how many more surprises he can stomach in one day.

Hermann switches off the lights and ushers Stacker from the room. After locking the door, he leads the way down the short hall toward his office, with each step wondering what could be so pressing that Stacker would come all the way to the basement to relay whatever it is in person.

He isn’t left wondering long. Hermann stops cold several feet from his office door; upon rounding the corner, he is faced with all five-foot-seven of the man responsible for the plague of unproductiveness that had descended upon his classes throughout the previous week.

“ _You_ ,” he says breathlessly, unable to make out more than the single syllable.

_Very eloquent, well done, Hermann_.

“Yes, _me_ ,” Newton Geiszler replies, arms folded across his chest. His posture seems to mimic the challenge in his tone, Hermann thinks, but before he can utter another syllable Stacker moves as if to step between them, arranging his expression into one more carefully neutral.

“Actually, my request has to do with Mr. Geiszler. I was hoping,” he says, emphasizing the fact that Hermann apparently has no choice in the matter by pausing for several heartbeats, “you would be kind enough to help him find his way around the school again. See how things have changed. Since he will be here for a while, after all.”

Stacker’s words hit Hermann like a grand piano in freefall, and he fumbles with his words a moment before finally managing to find his voice again.

“Under ordinary circumstances I would be happy to, but as it were, I really have to get back to exam preparation –”

“Which is precisely why I think you can spare part of the afternoon, can’t you? End of term exams aren’t for another two weeks, after all,” Stacker says mildly, with all the authority of someone who clearly does not intend to welcome further challenge. “I would have asked someone else, but seeing as you attended the Academy at the same time as Mr. Geiszler, I feel you are best able to explain our current situation and how things have changed.”

Hermann regretfully inclines his head. There was no way to argue with the man without undermining his authority, and frankly, he feels he has lost the energy to try. There was clearly some disconnect, some piece of the puzzle he was still missing, but without the proper variables, there was no way to solve the equation.

“I would be happy to,” he says stiffly, clearly aware that his tone does not reflect the content of the sentence. “That is, if Mr. Geiszler doesn’t mind postponing a full tour until after lunch. I have a bit of grading to catch up on.” He chances a glance at the aforementioned man as he says this, but the only response is a curt nod. His last feeble attempt at an excuse clearly doesn’t fool Stacker, but he agrees nonetheless.

“Very well. Perhaps you could escort him to the faculty room then, and meet him there afterward.”

The patronizing nature of his tone is not lost on Hermann, who feels suddenly and acutely as if he is a student once more, though Stacker had not been the principal during his time at the Academy. He steels himself, however; no matter how little he might have wanted to spend time with some hotshot band celebrity, he is still a guest of the school.

“Understood.”

“Thank you, Dr. Gottlieb,” Stacker says, and before either he or Newton Geiszler can raise another protest, he has already vanished into the stairwell.

A long silence stretches between the two men, and Hermann clears his throat.

“If you would be kind enough to wait a moment, I’ll put my things away,” he says shortly, propping his cane against the door and fishing for his office key in his pocket.

“Fine by me,” Geiszler replies, not looking at him.

Hermann decides that perhaps it would be best not to reply; he is acutely aware of the frigidity that has begun to settle in the air around them since Stacker’s departure. The lock clicks, and he pushes the door open, retrieving his cane before it can topple over. As he does so, however, what sounds something akin to a derisive snort comes from behind him, and Hermann sets his things down before turning to look at the other man.

“That was pretty smooth, you know. The way you tried to get out of that,” Geiszler says, and Hermann frowns, slightly taken aback. 

Just because it was true didn’t mean he necessarily wanted to admit it, after all.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Listen, I know you don’t like me, okay? God only knows why,” he says, running a hand through his hair, but he stops and looks Hermann dead in the eye. “Let’s get one thing straight: I don’t like you either. Respect, maybe, as a musician, but _like_? No.”

Even if his bluntness stung a bit, at least the feeling was mutual, Hermann thinks, a kind of grim satisfaction seeping into his thoughts.

“Good,” he says, after finding his words. “We’re agreed, then?”

“On what?” It’s Geiszler’s turn to frown, and Hermann folds both of his hands over the head of his cane.

“On having as little to do with one another as possible. I think it best if we see very little of each other, don’t you? As a teacher, I, for one, am rather busy…and I suspect that you will find some way to keep yourself occupied, no doubt.” Hermann tries to keep his growing disdain in check, though it is terribly difficult given the nature of his day so far. He is well aware it likely isn’t earning him any points with Geiszler, but then his actions had probably damned any feelings of friendship between them from the start, if only on account of his inadvertently cold behavior. And, Hermann knows full well, apology (particularly several weeks after the fact and to a man with whom he has had fewer than five total conversations) has never been his strong suit.

The jibe earns Hermann a wry, humorless smile, its meaning clearly not lost on the recipient.

“Well then, who am I to argue with Hermann Gottlieb?”

Oh, well played, Geiszler. Well played.

\---

By two o’clock that afternoon, Hermann has decided that he does not dislike Newton Geiszler. No. Rather, his distaste has morphed into a profound amazement that any one person could be so persistently and resolutely irritating, particularly when they are well along in their adult life.

Lunch had been a silent, awkward affair, and only Mako’s brief interruption had provided any kind of solace. She had introduced herself to their guest, and stayed only long enough to discuss her private lesson schedule with Hermann before departing once more, much to his chagrin. She had either ignored or misunderstood his silent plea for help, and so they had been left in silence once again.

However, _after_ lunch had been another story entirely. 

At first, the tour had been conducted in a similar fashion to their reticent lunch. Occasionally, Geiszler would remark something about some change in the school - a re-done wall here, a classroom moved there, and so on. Hermann would reply, with as much brevity as he could muster, and they would lapse back into silence. However, they had both soon discovered that music was the sole topic on which neither of them could stay silent for very long, and things had gone rather downhill after that.

If it was a mere difference of opinion, Hermann considers, things might not have been quite so unbearable. After all, finding someone in the music world with whom your views aligned perfectly on everything just didn’t happen. Concessions had to be made, whether in terms of genre, playing style, artist, score edition, or any other triviality. No, the difficulty had not lay in mere difference of opinion, but in the unfortunate need for one-upmanship Geiszler so clearly exhibited - which had, Hermann had been forced to concede, egged on his own (ordinarily well-controlled) competitive nature. 

It had begun innocently enough, at least.

As they walked, Hermann doing his best to stay several steps ahead of his charge (thereby keeping conversation to a minimum), the bell had chimed distantly. The students, rather than charging out of their classrooms as per usual, got about two feet out of their respective doors before freezing in place, apparently awestruck. Or starstruck, as it were. 

Geiszler made what sounded suspiciously like an amused snort from somewhere behind Hermann as yet another classroom door slammed shut with a pre-teen squeak of embarrassment at having been caught peeking. “Nervous little things, aren’t they? I definitely don’t remember being like that at their age.”

Hermann did his best to ignore the comment, preferring to stare directly ahead at the double doors signifying the end of the hallway, silently counting the steps until his release from this...unfortunate obligation.

Geiszler, however, continued: “Wasn’t that old Kincaid’s room? Whatever happened to her?”

“Retired, I expect,” Hermann replied shortly, intending to cut off the conversation there, but to his dismay, the hint is most certainly not gotten. 

_That, or he’s doing it on purpose_.

“Hey, remember what she used to say? God, I used to hate her class. Like every single gen ed class of eighth grade ever was ‘solfege today or tomorrow you’ll pay.’ I thought I was gonna lose it.” He chuckled to himself before adding, “Plus, she had terrible taste. She always played Fauré while we worked.”

“That dismissive of great composers, are we?” Hermann remarked idly, though he knew there was a derisive edge to his voice that he could not keep from coloring the statement.

“No, just the mediocre ones.”

Unable to help himself, Hermann stopped just before the double doors and turned, placidly folding both hands over the head of his cane. “And just who do you consider to be better than _mediocre_?”

“I mean, if we’re talking Fauré contemporaries, Wagner, for one.” Geiszler lifted a brow, while Hermann frowned simultaneously.

“You’ll forgive me if I remain unconvinced. You can hardly compare Wagner’s operas to --”

“Exactly. Fauré’s. They just...aren’t good. Too boring for opera. I don’t care if Copeland liked _Pénélope_ , the guy should have stuck to Requiems and chamber orchestras. You seriously don’t find his music at all boring? I barely got through the first nocturne without falling asleep at the piano.”

“You’re conveniently glossing over the fact that said Requiem is one of the most well-regarded religious works from that period, let alone in recent history,” Hermann interrupted, experiencing not for the first time that day a thoroughly bizarre and altogether unwelcome blend of emotions. The most definitive one of the lot was, without a doubt, _still_ irritation.

It had taken Hermann a moment of calm before he was able to grasp the implication behind Geiszler’s words. So he was a pianist too, was he? 

Well. Emphasis on the _was_ , most likely.

Still, it would explain a lot. Such as how he was having an argument with a loud, colorful, and thoroughly irritating man he’d had less than twenty-four hours’ total contact with regarding professional differences of opinion on _Gabriel Fauré_ , of all people.

“Yeah, and so? I’m not saying it’s bad, I’m just saying that it’s not entirely worth all of the hype. He’s not the first dead guy to have written a few decent things. Decent, but not totally original or innovative.” He crossed his arms, and Hermann was yet again torn between maintaining the tatters of his professional courtesy that still existed and succumbing to the challenge that was being presented to him.

"Do you truly believe that any composer in history had genuinely unaffected, original ideas? I would think that someone who appeals to the masses with formulaic --” Hermann stopped himself from saying any number of things ( _drivel_ , _nonsense_ , _rubbish_ , _noise_ , to name a few) before finally settling on “-- rather, _mainstream_ constructions would understand the importance of maintaining some predictability while inserting themselves into the work. No one great ever got very far on pure individual merit alone.”

“I’m gonna ignore what you were about to say,” Geiszler said, nudging his glasses further up his nose. “Because it sounded a whole lot like you were about to diss the mainstream professional music industry, which I’m pretty sure someone like you knows next to nothing about.”

“That may be,” Hermann replied, unwilling to concede even to himself that the statement held more truth than Geiszler likely knew. “But the fundamentals remain unchanged. Mainstream or not,” he said, pausing to fix Geiszler with what he hoped was something close to a defiant look, “there are some things about music which cannot be changed.”

“See,” the other man replied, and Hermann could almost tangibly feel the exasperation rising from his inked skin in waves as he raised a hand to run it through his hair. “See, this is exactly why I can’t stand classical musicians. You’re all so -- so, so like this.” He didn’t waste any time gesturing toward Hermann, who felt the pit of ire in his ribcage expand by a few metaphorical meters. “You know, maybe it was my mistake looking up to you for so long, but I thought maybe, just maybe you’d be a _little bit_ different. But here you are, standing in front of me, acting as if I don’t know how music works.” 

He cut himself off in spite of whatever else he might have wanted to say as Sasha Kaidonovsky swung her classroom door open to fix them with a menacing stare. Immediately chastised by her expression alone, Hermann silenced himself at once, all thought of retaliation shoved momentarily to the back of his mind at the prospect of one (or quite possibly two) irate Russian vocal teacher(s) explaining in great detail to Stacker exactly why he should be offed right there and then.

Forcing the conversation to resume a normal decibel level, he quieted himself as well as he could manage, though a thousand more retaliations leapt fruitlessly into his throat, one after another. 

“I think,” Hermann gritted out, well aware that his temper had already been pushed dangerously close to its limit several times already that day, “that we will have to agree to disagree. On most things.” 

“Suit yourself,” Geiszler said, with all the air of a man who had clearly achieved his desired result. 

And yet, if Hermann were one for impossibly wild interpretations of other people’s mannerisms, he would have sworn that there was a kind of lingering regret there, too.

Just when he had thought the end was in sight, however, Geiszler added, “If I’m being real with you? I think you’re just not used to having anyone tell you that maybe, just for a second, your opinion might not be the only one that matters here.”

The double doors, a mere few paces away, had never seemed further from reach.

\---

The tour having been concluded so spectacularly, they had parted with little more said, Hermann still stewing over what was bound to be the shortest and most unhappy acquaintanceship of his entire life. Wherever Geiszler had gone off to afterward was none of his concern; he had done what was asked of him by Stacker, and would continue to do so -- and no more than that.

The worst part of all, in hindsight, is the apparent impossibility of denying his musical proficiency. He hadn’t expected composers and sonatas from a man who made his living off of the same three chord progressions ad nauseam. Of course he had to have some ability. He wouldn’t have been famous otherwise. But some small, petty part of Hermann had perhaps thought -- hoped, even -- that Geiszler wouldn’t be so apparently well-versed in classical repertoire. Or so opinionated about nineteenth century European composers, at the very least. Granted, he had attended the Academy for a short time, though Hermann can no more recall meeting him than Fauré himself, so it was only natural he would have retained some small part of his education here. And maybe it was only the part about early Romantic composers.

Right? That had to be it.

_If I’m being real with you? I think you’re just not used to having anyone tell you that maybe, just for a second, your opinion might not be the only one that matters here_.

Hermann stands in the doorway to his music room and fumbles for the wall switch before the electric floor lamp blazes to life. He swings the cello case from his back and sets it down gingerly by the baby grand, pausing only to stoop under the lamp and turn the three-way bulb up one more click. 

Fauré. He had to have _something_ Fauré. 

It is only after he has perused his four neatly alphabetized and categorized bookshelves that Hermann realizes the music he is searching for is on the desk across the room. He sets down his bag, absentmindedly shrugging off his coat as he leans his cane against the desk and shuffles through the pile of music he had intended for Amara’s next lesson. Organization be damned. Against his better judgment, he pulls Elegie, Op. 24 from the stack and smooths the well-worn spine flat against the desktop, its pages protesting with a faint crinkle. Self-restraint be damned. He has a point to prove, even if only to himself. 

The music is forgotten momentarily as Hermann’s daily ritual begins. The front of his case stumbles across the well-loved hardwood floor as the hinges are pried open, and his cello is laid bare in the dim light. It has long since ceased to cause the thrill it had so long ago, when things were simpler and music had all the ease and grace of an old friend’s embrace.

But tonight. Tonight is different, somehow.

Ordinarily, practice is a necessity. It is an obstacle to overcome, a tool to condition his hands and mind and keep his technical skills honed to a razor edge. The music is executed perfectly, precisely, and without fail, practically. It was simple, black and white as notes on staff paper. And yet, as Hermann sets his rosin down on the corner of the piano lid, sap dust still floating delicately from his newly-tightened bow in gentle puffs, tonight it doesn’t feel like a task.

The endpin is extended and he trades his cane for the instrument, settling back on his practice chair which gives its usual faint _squerk_ of protest before quieting to make way for the music. The Elegie is spread on the stand before him, but he knows, as always, there is no need. Closing his eyes, Hermann falls within himself and begins to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don’t practice music in a poorly lit room like Hermann Gottlieb. This has been a PSA on behalf of every eye doctor who has ever had to remind anyone of this. I’m not doing NaNoWriMo, but if I was it would be devoted to this fic. I guess I could cheat and call this 4,500-some words toward a 50k goal, but...I’m not about putting that kind of pressure on myself with a full-time job. Hope you enjoyed this latest rendition of arguments between the boys who are, at their respective cores, just big old nerds who enjoy having boisterous debates (read: arguments) about everything music. As always, I serve as my own beta so please, if you see any errors or inconsistencies, feel free to point them out!
> 
> Pieces mentioned are Antonín Dvořák’s Violin Concerto in A minor Op. 53 (performed by Julia Fischer and the Tonhalle Orchestra in Zurich with David Zinman, conductor): https://youtu.be/9rAd0-pTuU8?t=120  
> Gabriel Fauré’s Pénélope: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kb4bnJ3C7Vg   
> Requiem in D minor, Op. 48: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UnilUPXmipM  
> And finally, Elegie, Op. 24: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_hUJKqHTOEI 
> 
> Note that this chapter does not reflect my own views about Gabriel Fauré and I think Newton Geiszler can go...do something terrible for that opinion.


End file.
